Sweet Duplicity
by Toff
Summary: AU Poor Azelma is caught in the middle of a web woven by a crazy Ma'am Hucheloup, a conniving Thenardier, a creepy Englishman with a strange occupation, and an girly poet! Updated- with lots of sisterly love!
1. The Ogre and the Ogress

It was a poor day to be out. The rain had stopped long ago, but water still trickled down from the sky, almost as an after thought. The wind was harsh and jagged, cutting innocent street peddlers to the bone as they fought against becoming airborne.

A foolish newspaper peddler dug into his time worn sack, no doubt looking for something to eat. All at once, the wind gave an extra strong shove and the unsold dailies went soaring. They flew curiously, like a lop-sided bat; the inner pages at once falling out and taking on independent flight.

It was in the wake of this unusual flock that Thenardier emerged.

He had been doing his usual skulking about Paris, analyzing the shops and reciting to himself their wares. It seemed that Thenardier was merely preparing himself for another dusk of thievery.

It was not so. He was merely observing.

Thenardier had become bored with petty theft as of late. There was only so much money to be made in it for all the effort it took. Thenardier was anxious to make himself a rich man, and a large scale scam was the only way to do it. But how? And where?

Thenardier stopped walking, just then, and glanced upwards. The ramshackle wooden building looked stately to Thenardier, albeit slightly lopsided, and our criminal rejoiced.

Perhaps the rich men he could only assume were inside were bleeding hearts, too…

"Le Café Musain…" he read, haltingly. The greed in his eyes sparkled as he opened the splintering door.

Tears nearly sprang to the greedy eyes when they swept across the front room.

It was empty.

"Ay, missus," Thenardier called, motioning to a hideous ogre of a woman he could only assume was the proprietress. She wiped her hairy paws on her filthy apron.

"Ma'am Houcheloup, more like," she replied. "Well, sit ye-self down and let's see if we can't give you yesterday's pickings." She motioned to a chair with uneven legs and turned to disappear into her kitchen which was emitting a perturbing smoke.

Thenardier was slighted. "And I ain't good enough for whatever you got fresh?" he sniped angrily, his mind momentarily

"Haven't got anything fresh." The Ogress gestured around the front room. "You see any customers?"

"Where they at, anyhow?" Thenardier.

A flash went through the Ogress's eyes then, and for a moment she tensed. "Haven't seen a customer all day, dearie. To be truthful, we ain't open. But the good Lord tells us always to help the beggars!"

Thenardier shifted. He wasn't a beggar. Why, he had 20 francs in his pocket at the very moment. Which… he had begged off a mostly deaf church-goer. He was a beggar, perhaps, but still!

"So," The shrill tone of the Ogress's voice pierced his thoughts. "How's about them pickings?"

* * *

Random question: Does Alfred Doolittle from My Fair Lady remind you of Thenardier at all? And whil I'm on the subject, does Sherlock Holmes remind you of Higgins? I have so a strong picture of Sherlock Higgins in my mind that I can't help but picture Watson as Pickering. Drop a review if you want, and thanks for reading! Come back for shiny new chapters as soon as my mind regurgitates them. Bye!


	2. Blackmail and Black Bread

The Ogress was gone for quite a long time. During her absence Thenardier thought he heard snatches of singing coming from the kitchen. Then again, he surmised, it could have been a crow.

"Quite the ugly crow, that," he muttered to himself, leaning against the rough wooden wall.

In the midst of the crowing, both the Ogress's and his own, a faint sound rose up from behind him. Thenardier picked up on it right away, as he had thief's ears, and pressed his right side against the coarse wood. He listened.

"Men,' Thenardier heard, only partially clear, "…imperative...France. …we are but…"

Just then, the Ogress turned into the front room carrying what looked like a feast. Thenardier whipped himself around and back into the chair. He was deathly curious about the strange voices, yes, but getting caught snooping would only get him cast out of the shop, forever in the dark.

The two girls –not girls, more women- following the Ogress set down their dishes and scurried away. Thenardier heard a door open, a cheer, and then a slam. No doubt they had entered the room of mysterious voices.

The remaining woman sat and began to eat as if she had never offered Thenardier any at all.

"Madame," began Thenardier, as cordially as it is possible for a hungry vagabond to be, "Do you hold private gatherings here?"

The Ogress let out a nervous snort, trying in vain to disguise it as a giggle. "Ain't got the room, m'sieur, nor the money."

Our crook had just opened his jaw to pursue the subject further when the sound of chatter and yelling pierced through the front room. In a second, it was gone.

A tow-headed young boy, looking even more like a beggar than Thenardier, peered out from behind a corner.

"'ey, missus, we be needin' more wine and I'll be damned if we got enough chairs."

The crone looked torn between scolding the young man for his cusses, or striking him for emerging from the mysterious room beyond.

She settled for a compromise and smacked the boy as hard as she could, while at the same time reproaching his word choice.

The boy merely rubbed his cheek. "If'n a little tap like that's supposed keep me from cussin', missus, then you're bloody mistaken!" He laughed, then, furthered the statement by adding a few auxiliary swears.

"You're gonna drive me to the devil and back again, Gavroche," hooted the Ogress, looking all the scarier in her mirth. "Now, you go on back _next door_ and I'll see if I can't get you watchoo need."

"Ain't next door, me ol' crone," tittered the boy densely. "You forgotten the way down ya own back hall?"

Thenardier's ears burned. A secret gathering? What luck! Secrets could be sold, and trust could be bought.

The thief arose and felt the stinging gaze of the Ogress upon him. "I have a prior engagement, Madame," he said, as properly as he could. "Perhaps I will return."

With that, Thenardier placed up the tattered remains of an unfashionable hat upon his scheming head. He walked into the dusk and was gone.

The Ogress only sighed, staring at his empty chair. "Do come again!" She called out the window, desperately. "Come back to me!"

* * *

_Thanks for reading, everyone! More one-sided goodness coming up soon, as I have a week off from school and nothing (not even homework) to do. Till then, see ya!_


	3. Rustic Recollections

The Ogress had a real name, and quite the lovely one, hardly fit for a sweaty mountain of flesh such as herself. The name could be found, half faded, on a squirreled-away love letter. It remained there, waiting to be forgotten.

It had been years, decades maybe, since this moniker of a happy, almost pretty little girl was swallowed up by the more fitting "Ma'am Houcheloup." She did not answer to any other name but that of her deceased husband. She barely remembered life before him.

For sympathy's sake, we shall not refer to our subject as "the Ogress." We will not even call her "Ma'am Houcheluop."

We will call her Arielle.

Arielle could scarcely remember life before her husband. She had snatches of half-imagined memories which she saw when she was least expecting them- a green hill, a pasture, a cottage. She could hear echoes of voices when she was half asleep, a sweet voice, a rough voice.

This was all she had of her childhood, as it was one worth forgetting, and Arielle herself would not have known she was born in the countryside had she not a cache of rural sayings and superstitions at her disposal, almost from birth.

She enjoyed talking about the country for hours at length, but these rustic recollections were only recitations of things she had read about her home. They were not memories.

Arielle had no excuse for forgetting her life; only that life before M. Hucheloup had not been worth remembering.

It had been years, and slowly, M. Hucheloup was beginning to fade from her horrible memory. His voice became but a whisper in the back of her mind, his face but a guessed at jumble of features scrawled with ink on her bedroom wall. Every day, she forgot him a little more, and every day, she looked loathingly at her reflection in the mirror. She glared at the woman who dare forget such an angel as her M. Hucheloup.

She had been brooding on this, one dreary, blustery day. Arielle was perched on a chair half her size, in the back of her caf's private room. The pretty revolutionary was talking to a large group, and she was attempting to follow his speech. She couldn't.

She sighed. She quite liked the pretty revolutionary, and she was not alone. Still, he was too young for her tastes, and so she admired him from afar.

She grew angry at herself, as she so often did, at looking at another man.

"Not even cold in the ground and you're already eyeing up ye next dish! What a tramp I am! Oh!" She said woefully, under her breath. M. Hucheloup was indeed cold in the ground and perhaps maggoty- the poor man had received the services of a rather cheap undertaker.

Arielle only forgot her sadness when the cries for wine became louder than the pretty revolutionary's cry of freedom.

"We know where this country's loyalties lie, now don't we!" she bellowed happily, addressing no-one in particular. She bustled out of the room, her mind temporarily clear of any thoughts that did not have to do with pleasing her thirsty rebels.

Arielle was about to enter the kitchen when she heard a voice behind her.

"Ay, missus!" it came.

Arielle slowly turned around and was face to face with her first law-abiding customer in days. She talked with him, haltingly, feeling more and more like there was something about him that she could not put her finger on.

When she left the room to scrounge up scraps for what she thought was an ordinary beggar, it hit her. This man looked like her husband... Her husband had come back to her!

This "beggar" was her husband's ghost!


	4. Daddy's Darling

_Thank you, every one, for giving my story a chance! Also, thanks for all the really nice reviews, in which you gloss over the fact that I switch back and forth from "Hucheloup" to "Houcheloup." In most versions, I know they call her "mere" but my particular version uses "ma'am" and "widow." _

_Well, here's the next chapter. I sincerely hope it measures up to all the really nice reviews you gave me!_

* * *

"The Ogress" was not far from Thenardier's mind. In fact, between sitting with one ogress and lying with another, she had been the subject of his every mal-formed thought.

It is unfortunate for her that he was not thinking of her with love, nor with any positive emotion- he was thinking of her with greed, deceit and sheer duplicity.

It was obvious to Thenardier that The Ogress was "soft" for him, and this cheered him more than anything. A woman would do anything –anything!- for the object of her affections.

Thenardier could use this, and he was glad.

It was in a dank, dark room that he mused on this. A coarse, rotting chair was his only comfort; four thin, drafty walls his only protection from the clawing of the wind and the tangible hate of the slums.

It was here, in this last-resort of a room, that Thenardier slept, breathed, and (infrequently) ate immorality.

It was the perfect environment for a dirty scheme.

"Ay! Lazy beetle," Thenardier screeched, suddenly. "Get up 'ere and quick-like!" Our kindly brigand illustrated his urgency by kicking a rather large lump of rags with great force.

This sent the rag pile half an inch in the opposite direction. It stirred, and was suddenly a pile of bones and skin.

Our ragpile was a meek, shivering creature. Its eyes darted about the room fearfully, as if looking for aide from the other, substantially larger ragpiles. Said bigger ragpiles had pushed the littlest one so far from the fireplace, it was a miracle in itself that it did not freeze half to death.

It managed to muster a fearful whisper, "Yes, father, sir, what is it, sir?"

"Don't give me none o' that, you stupid slut," Thenardier hissed at it. From this eloquent, fatherly phrase, we can only assume our ragpile was female. "Now you gonna 'elp me out in my newest pinch and iff'n I get any of your lip-" Here he raised his hand in a threatening gesture.

Seeing the fist, our creature gave a particularly large shiver. She seemed capable of no lip.

Thenardier continued, roughly. "This afternoon you and I'll go down to this "Café Musain" and see iff'n we can get you a job there servin' drinks an' the like. The wretched ol' hag looks as if she can at least use a kitchen girl."

"An' if I c-cain't get meself a job, sir? Then what?" The words came out half-muttered and weak, but she looked surprised at her own temerity.

"We'll sell you, if we have to. But ye'll get a job. Lessen you bungle the game o' course!" His rough talking had turned into harsh yelling, and the girl was visibly distraught.

She sprang back in terror, fearful of the fist she knew was fast approaching. In doing so, she hit the worm-eaten table, pushing all the meager things upon it to the floor.

"Cor!" screeched the largest pile of rags. "What in the bloomin' world is goin' on 'ere?"

"Azelma going to work in a café, and I dare say if I can't get us a real 'ouse with the money that this will bring in!" Thenardier seemed almost happy now, which put the withering waif of an Azelma at obvious peace.

Mme. Thief, on the other hand, seemed foaming, as if a million questions and cusses danced about in her head waiting to be released.

Finally she gathered herself, and spat, "A real 'ouse? Hah! Servant girls make a franc a week if they're lucky!"

"You don't understand, woman!" The villain roared, "There's a little group of characters what sneaks around meetin' in the back room. I figure if they's hiding, it must be sumthin' unlawful-like. Sumthin' I kin blackmail 'em for. And Azelma 'ere's gonna spy on them and find out exactly what. Course I'll be in every other day 'er so to make sure the idiot doesn't botch the job!"

The villainess seemed just as angry as her male counterpart, and in reply, she yelled "Spy or not, no daughter of mine is gonna be workin' as a servant girl in a dingy little hole-in-the-wall!"

"Woman!" bellowed Thenardier. "Your daughters are drunkards and whores! Servants are their betters! And besides," here he mellowed down a bit, "'Tis only Azelma!"

The woman looked sadly torn, for a moment, gazing woefully at the skeleton that was Azelma. Finally she nodded and burrowed herself back under her covers.

Thenardier was pleased. Very pleased.

This was why he hadn't chosen Éponine.

_

* * *

_

_Thanks for reading! I took a little bit of artistic license when it came to Mme. Thenardier. I know she loves her daughters quite a bit, but she just seems like the kind of woman to play favorites, even if they are slight favorites._

_And I apologize for the Bill Sikes-esque Thenardier._

_Anyway, if you want, you can drop me a review, and (if you celebrate it) have a fun Halloween! I myself will try, although I will be running around in my ruffled, sleeveless Purple Monstrosity, which is an 80's prom gown (2 dollars at Goodwill!) modified severely in order to make it appear Christine Daae-ish. Too bad it's like, 40 degress (F) right now. Maybe it'll warm up by evening? Darn you, __Upper Midwest__! Why can't you be more like the __Deep South_

_Anyway, next chapter should be up soon, and thank you thank you thank you to everyone who reviewed, especially those of you who put this on C2 lists and favorites lists: AmZ, Kang Xiu and Elyse3. I think that's it. If I missed you, I apologize profusely!!!_


	5. From Ashes to Azelma

_Hello once again! Here is the latest chapter, in all of it's non-glory. As always, thanks for the wonderful, marvelous reviews, and I'll try to live up to them! Anyway, on with the show!_

_

* * *

_

If Azelma was a stupid girl, she would have been euphoric. She would have been singing Ma'am Hucheloup's praises from dusk 'till dawn; she might even be weeping with joy.

Yet Azelma was not euphoric. She was merely confused.

Azelma knew some things: she knew she was not cold, she knew she was not hungry, and she knew that she no longer lived in a shack.

But that was all she knew. The rest was a blur, a haze of events so strange they all ran together.

Was it normal for serving girls to call their mistresses "mother," like the proprietress had asked –no, demanded- of her?

Did all proprietresses weep when a customer left?

And if she was a serving girl, as the proprietress and her father had agreed, why wasn't she serving?

These questions presented themselves to Azelma again and again, each one fading away, answerless, only to pop up again just when she had thought she had forgotten them.

Azelma had dim memories of servant's quarters, as her parents had hired a serving girl after the departure of the Lark. The serving girl's dingy little hole-in-the-wall, although better than the Lark's bundle of rags, was nothing like the glorious suite Azelma was set up in now.

The bed and the windows were covered in what looked to be bolts and bolts of lace, in different colors; pink and white seemed to spar for control of the room.

Azelma herself was changed; burned were her street rags, and in their stead was a wardrobe stuffed with out-of-style dresses that Azelma had suspected had been around for a very long time. So bulbous were these dresses of the past that Azelma could barely walk, let alone wait on customers.

Azelma had a strange feeling she wasn't a serving girl.

Mumbled secrets hidden behind walls, and now this? Azelma scooted up against the headboard.

This place was curious. Too curious.

------------------------------------------

Downstairs, The Ogress was bellowing. Was it joy, or only sorrow?

Matelote paused.

She ignored Grantaire's wine-laden advances, for a moment, and racked her brain trying to figure out why the woman was so woe-struck. She knew she couldn't ask. When Mistress cried, one never asked the reason.

Ah. 'Twas April 17th. The day the ashes had been returned, all those years ago.

Matelote clicked her tounge. That Mademoiselle Hucheloup. Such a silly little creature she had been!

Still, you couldn't keep one like her for long. So headstrong! So fiery!

Fiery.

Where would a girl ever get the idea of setting herself aflame?

Matelote clicked her tounge again, louder this time.

That Josephine. Such a crazy creature she had been.

* * *

_Forgive me if the plot elements are getting repetitive but I was almost fond of this one. I seem to have caught the opposite of writers block, so the next chapter could be up as early as tomorrow (or, since I pretend to have a life, it might be later than that). Anyway, if you'd like, drop a review; other than that, thanks for reading! _


	6. Much Queerer Indeed

_Hello! Here's my pretty new chapter! Unfortunately, I ran out of clever alliterations for the titles!!_

_Thanks for reading, and give me a review if you want!_

_

* * *

_

The Ogress was happy. It was the first time in years.

It was beautiful; magnificent! All these years, she had been arguing with any wicked scoundrel of a being who dared tell her that her Josephine was dead.

There had been a funeral. Monsieur Hucheloup had insisted on that.

"Imagine," she had marveled then, "Havin' a funeral for a girl who's living!"

It made her laugh a bitter, harsh sort of snicker.

It was apparent, to the Ogress, that her angel of a husband had found Josephine, wherever she was in the world, and brought her home.

He had called the girl Azelma, and he had tried to pass her off as his beggar offspring who needed a job! Hah!

The Ogress knew, at first sight, that this wasn't any cold, emaciated waif of a girl. It was a shadow of Josephine's former self; no doubt, but it was Josephine!

Heaven was testing her sieve of a memory, she was certain of it. Look how she had recognized her husband! Look how she had remembered her daughter!

She felt –no, she knew!- that the fact that she remembered her family's existence made her a first-rate mother.

"See that, Virgin Mary?" The Ogress muttered, as she fingered the oft-forgotten rosary in her pocket. "I'm a good mother, I am, and what good mother should be denied access to heaven?"

The Ogress not only had a daughter, she had achieved salvation!

This pleased the Ogress. It pleased her very much.

Mild Azelma would not have answered the door under any normal circumstances. She sharply observed, however, that things could get no queerer, and diffidently opened the door but a crack.

"My daughter!" came a screech.

Ah. It was the proprietress. Even easily shaken Azelma was not shocked at this misstatement. It had been a week; the proprietress could do nothing to surprise her anymore. Azelma could not, however, keep from wrinkling her face up in surprise at the noise.

"Yes, maman?" It was easier to give into the delusional demands of "the Ogress's" (so had her father called Ma'am Hucheloup) than to attempt to pull her out of her fairy world.

"You'll never guess who's arrived!" the obvious pleasure in the Ogress's voice put Azelma on the alert, and she hastily pressed the door the rest of the way shut.

"Who?" Azelma replied warily through the splintering, rodent-gnawed door. There had been more truth to Ogress's statement than Azelma wished to say.

"Don't you remember me, Fifi?" This was a man's voice. A deep young man's voice.

"I don't like to be called Fifi, sir." Azelma whispered. It was all Azelma could muster up the courage to whisper.

After a painful pause, she added, "I'm sorry, but I don't know who you are."

"Splendid joke," he laughed. "Imagine, not recognizing your own fiancée!"

Azelma silently noted that things could indeed get queerer.

Much queerer indeed.


	7. The Reptile and the Mouse

Azelma could feel the tears prickling her eyes. It was only seconds after she had met him, and already her "fiancée" had wounded her beyond measure.

"Anyway," he had said, joyfully, "All that time as a street beggar has done wonders for your figure!"

She uttered her best curse under her breath, a Christian thing –weak- in the way of "zut alors."

A frightening, unfamiliar emotion was welling up inside her, red hot with intensity.

Oh! It was anger! Anger was not a luxury herformer life had allowed her.

Her life as the least favorite daughter had been a persistent pattern of hear and obey, hear and obey. It did not matter if an order made her unhappy; her place in the home was a tentative one and one minor misstep would find her in Gavroche's elephant.

So she had learned to shut her anger off. And here it was again! The feeling scared her.

The tears ran down her cheeks, like rivulets; Azelma could not have stopped them if she had used all the magic of the world. She wiped at them, tried to think of happy things, but it was all in vain. She knew no happy things.

The rivulets became a flood, and the girl was so racked with pitiful sobs that she felt the need to sit down.

A peal of laughter echoed from the doorway.

The man was laughing at her!

He was laughing!

Laughing!

Her anger boiled over, then, and Azelma, mild as she was, could hold it in no longer.

"You, m'siuer," she said with an edge intended to be cold but merely sounded plaintive. "Are being …being… _unpleasant_ this afternoon."

And with that, Azelma attempted to glide coolly out of the room. One misplaced foot later, she had tripped over her oversized skirt. Azelma flew through the air with a speed so startling, her confusion of a "fiancée" stepped out of the way so he did not block her path directly into the wall.

She hit the wall and bounced onto the floor, her feet tumbling over her head.

Two little twigs, flaying about madly in the air, skirts pooled below them on the floor.

Oh! It was a comical sight, one that sent the man laughing again.

Embarrassed beyond measure, Azelma picked herself up and marched straight to her suitor.

"Unpleasant, to be sure!"

A high, mal-formed cackle harmonized with the fiancée's guffaw. It was the Ogress.

Of course! She had not left.

"Ah," she said smirking. "Such a fine foot for the newlyweds to start upon."

Newlyweds.

"But what if I shan't?" Azelma asked, nearly defiantly.

"Oh," the suitor replied, giving her a grin that looked decidedly reptilian. "You shall."

"And don't you dare think of running off again, not before your happy, happy day!" The Ogress spit out this remark with such a tainted, hideous glee that Azelma shivered.

"I-I'm off to get a cup of tea…to…calm me nerves." Azelma muttered shakily. "Pleased to meetcha, m'sieur."

Azelma stepped past "the Reptile" (as he would be known to her henceforth) and shuffled meekly downstairs to wait for her father in the front room. She had seen him five times in the week she had been there- perhaps he'd be there today.

"Oh, Papa," she breathed, as the floorboard creaked beneath her. "I love you Papa, comehelp me!"


	8. The Mouse's Dance

The shop door clicked behind him as Thenardier made his majestic entrance.

Or it would have been majestic, if Thenardier had the grace of a swan. Or even of a duck.

But of course, he didn't; that was why he emerged from the florist's seconds later with a bundle of slightly damaged roses.

Ah, well. They had cost more than he had been intending to spend, but then again perhaps roses would serve his purpose better.

Yes, Thenardier thought. They'd do, nicely.

Azelma, meanwhile, ran her hand over the streaky glass.

"Papa…" she murmured, as if trying to will him there. "Papa…"

It had been going on three hours that she had been there. Three lonesome, bitter hours; cup after cup of coffee. The waitress, the unfortunate looking one, kept bringing it to Azelma, and she dared not leave the cup full for fear of hurting her feelings.

Azelma felt strange. Very strange- what was in this coffee that they were giving her? She had long ago lost the ability to sit still, and now she was…dancing?

Yes, Azelma was dancing! She was jumping up and down, she was moving her feet; she was dancing!

Such a strange effect this drink had on her! Azelma did not dance, even in private, and here she was in public shuffling for all to see.

A man with shining brown curls was walking down the road just then. Azelma found it hard to imagine that a man with such hair could walk so humbly.

The man's raggedy, mismatched ugly clothing made him very easily distinguishable from the crowds of the street.

Oh! How stupid she had been. It was probably Montparnasse, wearing his "working clothes" and fresh from a hairdresser, sent by her father to come check up on her.

She tried to stop the "dancing" but it was to no avail. The more anxious she got about Montparnasse's approach, the faster her feet moved.

Tears were streaming down her cheeks from fear by the time the curls reached the doorway. Montparnasse would think her foolish for dancing. Montparnasse would hit her for giddiness. Montparnasse would-

"Miss?" Oh! The curls were talking to her, with a smooth voice, unblemished by drink.

This wasn't Montparnasse.

Azelma, fidgety as she felt, could only bring her eyes to the floor in reply.

"Miss?" he said again, softly. He was almost as meek as she was! This though made her laugh. Almost.

This time Azelma knew she had to answer. "Yes, sir?"

"Are you all right? Do you need something?"

Azelma found this question both the kindest thing she had ever heard, but also the most troubling. Why was he taking such an interest in her? Could he tell she was out of place? Oh! In such a queer house, who knew what could happen to her? She was foolish for talking to him in the first place.

"No, sir," she said, blushing. "I'm fine, sir. Just waiting for me papa, sir."

The young mismatched man regarded her curiously for a moment, and walked away, soundlessly.

Azelma stared after him, long after he had shuffled away into the private room.

Azelma knew she needed to think. And her favorite place to think was out-of-doors.

The door shut behind her. Everyone who heard it would only think some customer had left after noticing the rats.

The Ogress stood at the head of the stairs, watching the scene taking place in her front room.

Josephine was talking to another man! And alone! And she was engaged! How positively…tramp-ish!

"Like mother, like daughter," whispered the Ogress, ruefully. "Of course. She ain't been here two weeks, and already she's soaked up my new whorish ways!"

Oh, she never should have looked at the pretty boy in the revolutionaries' room! See what it had done to her Josephine!

Talking to men! Alone!

The Reptile, looking to leave, appeared at the head of the staircase beside the Ogress.

"Lookit that girl, Olivier," breathed the Ogress to the reptile. "She was talking to another man! And quite the stylish one!"

The Reptile's face turned purple in seconds. His fists clenched, and his veins began to pop out.

"But ma'am," he snarled, as though he wished to squash his anger, but couldn't. "Josephine is mine. I own her."

"Not yet, you don't," said the Ogress annoyed. "She's mine, till you're married."

"She's mine, woman!" bellowed the Reptile.

"She's yours, sir, she's yours…"


	9. Queen Of The Rubbish Heap

_Hello all, I am back, after suffering not only writers block but also a new year! I would have been happier if time came to a stop and I could stay in 2004 forever, but unfortunately time is an upperclassman: it's not even willing to listen to the moans and whines of an underclassman (like myself), let alone comply (though it could stuff me in a locker without regrets). Ah, well. I'm here to write, not rant! Every single one of you is absolutely lovely! I love all my reviewers to bits! Forgive typos in last draft- loves to mess with my word documents._

Azelma stood at the side of the street, looking blankly about her. The Café was not many paces behind her. Before her, there were clumps of shops trying to look presentable but only looking sad and world-weary.

Azelma was scared. Very scared indeed. _This is a place for rich people,_ She thought. _One look at me and they'll chuck me out!_

This was a quarter where "rich" meant one could survive without picking the pockets of the drunken students ambling about. Azelma, to these people, looked a queen, old though her dresses were. They had stopped their business, suddenly ashamed of their behavior. They were in the presence of a "lady"!

Our mouse, though, was far from the little hole she called home, and to her, this was grandeur and beauty. Such a funny sight it was- a mouse in awe of a rubbish heap, and the rubbish heap in awe of a mouse!

Azelma began to shuffle slowly back towards to the Café, backwards. Azelma did not fit in here.

And the quarter shyly came back to life as she walked away. The quarter felt inferior to Azelma.

Thenardier was not pleased. A dog had stolen one of his roses and scamped away with the thing in its mouth.

"Them roses better be poison," he called after it, starting to run. The bewildered, rag-tag bunch of onlookers, however, blocked his path to the mutt and so he retreated.

"Stupid animal," he said, continuing to the Café. He had /paid/ for these roses- paid!

"Bloody stupid!" he screeched again, but this time he was not cursing the thief of a dog. No, he had walked right into his daughter.

She had tumbled down, of course- Azelma never could keep her footing- and stained the white muslin gown the size of bedclothes, tied sloppily at the waist with a bit of snow white hem.

"Girl!" our loving father yelled, "Now we're gonna have to buy that stupid rag!"

Thenardier did not have a very wide vocabulary.

He yanked his daughter (no longer white as snow after her tumble in the dirt) by a spindly arm and half-dragged her back to the Café.

The Ogre was not pleased after his walk with his child. She did not have any new information.

Her husband, her very great and good (though woefully deceased) husband, and come back to her and had not left until the morning shone through the streaky windows.

The Ogress was glad he had remembered her. She was afraid he'd leave her forever after he brought her girl back to her. She thought his sojourn on Earth would not last, and soon he'd be whisked away, back to the heavens to stay.

Or to Hell, perhaps. But The Ogress did not like to dwell on that.

He had been a good man, she thought. A very good man.

Perhaps he'd like to come to the pretty-boy's meetings…


	10. The Past Shows Itself In Real Time

You can not say Jehan is a careful man. You can not even call him alert, usually; his poetic brains are nothing but a mush of words and flourishes and women and flowers, leaving little room for sense or savvy. Often, our dear little scarecrow of a poet is present in poorly-clothed body only, spirit and mind journeying together somewhere in the hereafter.

Still, Jehan does not often walk into walls.

It is safe to assume, then, that something more than rhymes and riddles is troubling our man this day. Is it love? Drink? Who knows? Who cares?

Murmers fill the little back room when Jehan sits down after his crash with the peeling paint. Some bother to hush their words.

Most don't.

Poets may be absent-minded, yes, but they are surprisingly alert whenever a chance arises to exercise over-sensitivity. Sensitive poet he was, Jehan would usually take severe offense at his comrades' callous remarks, and remember his wounds always.

But not today. He won't listen today. He won't let himself, because no matter how badly he has it, that wisp of a trodden down ghost girl has it far, far worse.

Does he love her? Does he pity her?

Maybe it was the latter. Maybe it was the former.

Maybe it was a little of both.

We will leave our poet now. He is sick of soul and needs to rest. Instead, let us visit the The Ogre in his decrepit den today, as he is planning something monumental.

He has been invited to a meeting of The Friends of the ABC, as Madame Hucheloup's Special Guest. She has even set a special date, weeks out, "to give the dear boys some warning."

"Some sodding teachers' group, no doubt" he sneers. But he is going anyway.

Why? He heard them whispering, all those days ago, behind the wall. Whispers mean something's afoot, and that means blackmail money to the money-fixated thief.

The weakening legs in his only chair are giving way to his weight as he leans back. This means he is thinking.

Azelma has been useless. This he knows. But she can be of use to him still. He knows that any group with a secret would guard it with their life. Too bad the stupid old woman will told them ahead of time that he is coming, and they will be extra careful and speak in code so as to guard against outsiders. Perhaps they will even change their meeting place, or cancel.

They are a clever bunch. But so is Thenardier. He will have a back-up plan, in case the secret-keepers are too smart, and he cannot get the information when he goes in person.

Azelma will "befriend" one of the members. They will tell anything to some stupid grisette "what's got feminine charms."

Thenardier's chair snaps beneath him, and he crashes to the floor.

It doesn't faze him. He will fix it later somehow. A broken chair means a plan well planned. In Thenardier's experience, a plan well planned always works in the end.

_I know it's not my best, dears, but I really needed to get something up, and I'm anxious to get on with the story before my big essay on _Of Mice and Men _eats up all my time. Thank you for reading, and thanks for being patient with my sporadic posting!_


	11. The Real Time Ticks on Still

Meanwhile, The Ogress cries.

She is sobbing big ogress tears; tears which flood the cracks in the wooden tabletop as they land. They are so big, you can clearly hear them fall.

Drip, drip, drip...

Along with the tears like spilled water-cups, there are groans and exclamations that would wring the heart of anyone, and that make The Ogress sound like she is dying.

Is she dying? In spirit, she is.

Josephine's wedding is just a week away. All day, Josephine has been with a seamstress.

It isn't a seamstress, really, it is just Gibelote with a needle and thread and a third- (or perhaps fourth-) hand white dress that will do nicely for the wedding. The Ogress cannot afford much else; she works for students who likewise cannot afford much, either.

Before the Big Day, a wholewretched year ago (Matelote would say it was several, but it had only seemed like several; it was in truth only one), when Josephine fled, the Ogress had been so looking forward to the wedding. They had had more money then, because the cooking was decent when He had been around. More importantly,He Himself was stillaround, and so The Ogress did not feel so protective of her family.

Her husband was her husband then, and not a vagabond ghost who insists on going back to a dirty, dingy hovel every day, as he is now; her daughter behaved for her and was not inclined to run away or disappear and never come back again!

The Ogress is good at assumptions. She cries out, to no-one in particular, that Olivier is aiming to split up the little rag-tag family she has cobbled together!

This cannot happen. This can not be.

There cannot be a wedding.

Drip, drip, drip...

The Reptile has just gone to bed in his room in a pretty little inn. He is laughing, though he has yet to fall asleep.

Thenardier would like this room; it is full of pretty and expensive things. Mostly, though, the sickly sweet smell of duplicity that saturated the room would be soothingly familliar to him.

The scent is coming from a letter on a table. The Reptile is still laughing, but it is in his sleep, so it is safe enough for us to creep in and peek at what he has been writing.

He has left it out, for the ink is wet.

He has been writing this letter in a very curious language, devoid of accent marks and full of curious spellings.

It is English. The letter is written in English!

_Thursday, November 17th, 1831_

_My Dearest Brother,_

_I am within an inch of our prey, Edmund, and I assure you all plans will be carried out as necessary. Josephine has grown frailer and thinner since my last sojurn here in Paris (when we became "engaged"), but it is of no concern. In fact, except for a few remnants of her street life, she is lovelier now, and meeker! Her one attempt at spitefulness was just childish, and it was amusing. She is like a mouse, most of the time. _

_A meek girl, and although not pretty, not unpleasent! We are going to make a pretty bit of money for this one, Eddy, a very pretty bit indeed._

_We are to be married (all part of the ploy, dear brother, worry not) in a week's time, and so I will be in England with the blushing bride no later than the 11th of December, I should think. _

_You ask why I have been spending so much time on this particular catch, dear brother, and it is simple: I sense large amounts of money will be shelled out for this girl. She will make some sodding Earl a happy man, to be sure._

_And also, Edmund, I have been getting us other girls, have I not? You said yourself that the French women fetch more than the English, as the men like having mistresses who do not -cannot- talk to them and thus "spoil the relationship!"_

_I am making myself tear up with laughter. It is time to retire, brother, and calm myself. May God bless the lonely, ugly nobles of London and may Hekeep them forever more!_

_Oursis not a moral business, Eddy, but at least it is an amusing (and profitable!) one! I remain your most ardent and eager servant and loving brother,_

_Oliver._


	12. The Croak of a Frog

_Thanks for all the lovely words, my dears, I am absolutely elated to hear you like my story. I quite revere Dickens and I am very, very proud that two different people think my writing echoes/reminds them of his. I actually didn't realize the name similarity between Oliver and The Reptile until Elyse3 pointed it out to me. I find is strange though, that there's a corellation between the two characters; one being innocence incarnate, and one being, well, a Reptile. I was originally going to wrap this up in the next chapter or so, but since you all seem to like it so much (and thanks for that, because I'm insecure), I think I'll keep going and just see how it goes. Any "cafes" without accent marks aren't mistakes. I'm typing this on WordPad and it can't do them._

_One last thing: Thanks for the kind words regarding my essay. It went smashingly, although I did mispell my own last name (I'm the worst typer ever) and got marked down for it! _

* * *

We must return now, lovely readers, to talking about the past as the past, and not as the present. The Monumental Day that we saw through the eyes of four mortal and sinful chracters is truly in the past, and besides; the day we are now to discuss is not nearly as monumental. 

Azelma, dear little mouse, was sitting as she so often did on a little trunk at the foot of her bed. She detested the trunk; it was big and black and scratched. Inside, there were things for her new life as Madame Reptile tucked against a lining made of grayed, coarse fabric. She could not move the trunk toa place she could not see it, and so take her mind off the wedding; she could only sit on it and try her hardest to crush its heavy exterior with her emaciated, barely-nothing frame.

It did not work. It would never work.

And yet Azelma passed the night in just this fashion.

* * *

The Reptile was slithering about, his usual lizard-esque grin defining his face. The Cafe was too...pedestrian for his haughty tastes, but it served his purpose and so he went there daily. 

Josephine was not often down to see him, especially not lately. She used to emerge from the room where she cloistered herself and stare blankly at the floor as he tried to charm her, by only at the prodding of her overbearing Ogress of a mother. His grin faded.

He took a sip of some horrible beverage, whose name he did not know, and sighed. Ah, it was a pity she wasn't more...alluring. She was no Venus, no great beauty; her body was a dried up twig and none too inviting. She was, though, the shyest, mildest thing in Paris and the world. She would do anything she was told.

A pity they weren't really being married.

His grin reappered, and grew.

They needn't be married for him to...enjoy her. He was destined for Hell already; why not have fun in his last remaining days before eternal damnation?

If only she would come down! And if only she hadn't barricaded her door! What a cloistress that Mouse was, andhow tightly she shut herself in!

The Reptile began to walk towards the hallway that lead to a back room, and to an exit. He wished to exit by this back way; to be seen exiting such a terrible place would be his honor's death, to be sure.

When he reached the hallway, by the door to the always-locked back room, he stopped and sniffed the air. What was that disgusting smell?

Sniff..sniff...

"Hey, m'sieur!" It was a beggar girl! And a horrible one.

The Reptile gave her a scanning look. Could he sell this one too?

Nearly as soon as he scanned, however, he pulled away with horror; No man would want this wretch!

She was dark from the sun, and with even less teeth that your average street beggar. She was a bag of bones and scabby skin, with unwashed hair that she (was it a she?) had cut short...lice! She was infested with lice! Mostly, though, it was her voice; it was like...like...nothing no man should ever have to hear. It was a travesty.

She was not a possibility.

The croak emgered from the Frog's throat and the disgustingcreature continued. "If you're headed inta that back room there, then you're the man me papa asked me to seek out," She stopped here, and looked about. "Gawd, but this is a nice place, ain't it?"

"Quite," he murmered.

"Anyway, you lonely, m'siuer?"

"What?"

She rolled her eyes in annoyance. The Frog seemed intent on following a set script.

"Anyway, you lonely m'sieur?" She said, a little more scathingly.

The hideous, rusted out, money-loving cogs in The Reptile's mind began to turn. Perhaps this whore knew other whores...better whores...

"Dreadfully," he replied, deadpan. He wasn't much of an actor.

"Oh! Oh! Oh," The Frog cried out, clapping her claw-like hands together. "Papa's gonna be so happy with me, so happy!"It almost seemed insane, this clapping and cheering; she shut herself out from the world for this moment and showed her happiness physically. The Frog didn't have many words.

"Er...well...I'm quite lonely. What do you propose we do about it?" Upon saying this, he leaned against the rough wooden door to the back room. He could hear no sound. It must have been empty.

"I erm, know a girl what's looking for some extra income, sir, and if yer willing, could you take her?"'

"Is she beautiful?"

This was not in The Frog's script. "Yessir," she said, after a period of screwing up her dirty, ugly face. "And she's right close, sir, just upstairs even."

Upstairs? Josephine!

"How do you know the upstairs girl?" He was not angry (he didn't care about the honor of a mouse), merely curious, and a bit excited.

"She's...she's..." The Frog had forgotten her script. She paused to dig in her street-addled mind. "She's er, my cousin. Oh, sir, don't tell the lady of the house, don't tell me dear auntie what business her...er...daughter's in!"

"I won't," grinned The Reptile. This was his chance he was looking for to have his fun with that little cloistress mouse befor he sold her off!

The world works in such mysterious ways!

Such mysterious ways...

He could hear the smelly Frog muttering as she hopped out of the Cafe, but he could not hear her words.

"I sold off Zelly to one of them back-room men," shewas saying, "And I even went to the right Cafe, and I remembered everythin' I was supposed to say, and papa ain't gonna beat me, he ain't gonna beat me, oh! he ain't gonna, he ain't gonna..."


	13. The Entrance And Exit of the Swamp Frog ...

_My dears, as always, your reviews are too kind to the extreme! I love you all : )_

_Now, is it just my horrible typing skills, or does this site have a tendency to run words together and delete spaces? I've seen that a lot in my fics, but also in others peoples'. Hmm..._

_One last question: is this new ratings system confusing anyone else? I find it irritating, but I suppose in a few weeks I'll be OK with the whole thing. Maybe._

* * *

The Ogre was laughing. Everythinghad gonehis way; he was laughing a drink-roughened guffaw.

Azelma was always his least favorite girl, and now she was some penniless revolutionary's worry.

He reflected on this and decided that he was penniless as well.

But not for long, if this lengthy and complex measure worked out in the end.

Madame Ogre, an entirely different personage than the Ogress (though equally as vile), sat hunched up in a blanket at her husband's feet.

She was shaking -no, convulsing- no doubt because of the gnawing cold and her useless blanket; if she had been a woman and not a beast, she would ahve beenbe crying.

It was cold, and she missed her girl.

The Frog clattered in, her big ugly shoes pounding loudly on the disgustingly dirty floor. They made a curious sound, and as they were wet the sound was even more curious. It was the closest thing to music these people- no, creatures- had heard in a very long time.

_Thud, squish, flap! _It was an original piece: "The Entrance of the Swamp Frog Maiden."

Except "maiden" did not describe The Frog.

Neither did "kind."

"Aw, mama," came her rough croak, "Stop your cryin'! Ain't weak,not Thenardiers!"

The Frog collapsed into the only other piece of furniture in the room, besides her father's rough wooden chair. It was a hard chair, the kind that should have a cushion. This particular specimen, however, had only a thin layer of ripped fabric with fading garish flowers.

She propped her feet up on her sobbing mother and began to pick her teeth with her only fingernail.

"Mama, you can shut up," she said roughly, through clenched jaws. "Azelma's the property of one of them men. Better than here, anyhow."

Thenardier's sharp false hack pierced the air. As intended, the others' attention turned to him.

"Now I think it's time for a little, er, sisterly visit. Fill her in on our plan, like."

"Aw, why can't you go?" growled the Frog. "Same words comin' from you or me!"

"Because," he said, hand raised (as was his custom). "I told you to is why."

It was really because the Ogress was beginning to scare him; he doubted if he'd ever go back.

* * *

Azelma was black and blue and red; she was sickly fading yellow and tinged with green. Azelma was a great, big, fresh-yet-fading bruise.

And she had only been with that Reptile for two days now.

He still came to the cafe, and she still sometimes refused to see him. But she could never refuse for more than a few mintues; ever since she had become his "property" (she still did not know how that transpired) he had learned her Father's Tone. It made her feeble amount of courage fade, and meekly she would come out.

He had also learned her Father's Touch.

Azelma did not know how he had learned these things, or why he "owned" her now. She only knew that he knew about her past, somehow, and might tell the lady of the house about it.

Azelma had her bouts of cunning, though few and far between, and she knew that here, as Josephine, she was respectable.

Azelma did not want Josephine's reputation ruined, too.

She thought these dark, depressing thoughts as she sat huddled in a chair in the cafe, watching Matelote and Gibelote fuss over wedding preperations. They had stopped asking her opinion on matters; no matter what, Azelma always agreed.

They had also stopped asking what happened to her, as she did not give the particulars of her injury.

That shy man, the one who was as meek as she, entered through the back door. He fixed his gaze on her horrible, injured apperance and approached her very slowly.

"M-my l-lady," he stammered, when he was close enough to speak to her.

She only looked at him blankly.

He turned bright red, looked at the floor, and disappeared.


	14. Shining Armor and Poetry by Candlelight

_Forgive me for being so long absent, my faithful and wonderful readers! I've been quite busy with all kinds of things, including essays on the Industrial Reovlution._

_I adore you all, as I always have, and please enjoy! I apologize in advance for the horrible rhymes later on; I'm not much of a poet,especially when it comes to rhyming._

* * *

Jehan was going to save her. He didn't know how, of course; his favorite plans all involved duels and horseback riding. None of these would work, however. Jehan feared the hooves of horses, would flee at the mere mention of a swordfight, and was too poor to buy any metal armor.

Jehan, his determination fierce but brain infuriatingly blank, turned to pen and paper.

He would write her a poem! He would tell her, in it, to go down to the back room and search him out, and he would whisk her away from there.

Only Jehan would think a poem could save a life.

He dipped his pen in the ink, smiling all the while, and began to scratch away.

* * *

Azelma was crying, which had been her principle activity for the past few days. Gibelote clicked her tongue whenever she scuttled past Azelma's room.

"A new bride ought to be happy," Gibelote would mutter. She did not elaborate.

Azelma would hear her sometimes, and cry all the harder. She had heard her pass today, and nearly drowned herself.

The tears fell to the floor, one by one; Azelma watched them fall with an air of a wounded child. She was defeated. It was a horrible feeling.

"I shan't marry him, I shan't…" she was repeating, but it only served as a comfort now. She knew that she had lost, and must be married.

"I shan't marry him…I shan't…"

It was quick, but surprisingly loud; a piece of tattered paper, rough-edged and tear stained, flew under the door through the crack.

Azelma hobbled over to it, not wishing to unwrap herself from the coverlet, and picked it up.

Azelma was a slow reader, very slow, but eventually she made it through the note and was filled with a kind of apprehensive joy.

She through the coverlet to the floor, along with the paper, and stood poised to bolt.

She took a step towards the door, and was pained. She took a step away.

It was not like her to answer the call of strange poems in the night. It was a frightening prospect, and oh! But she was timid.

Who awaited her in the room when she got there? How would she know it was the poem's author?

One question plagued Azelma most of all during that minute of quick thinking and fear: what if he wasn't good?

What if?

She picked the poem up again, and ignoring the fact that this would delay her trip to meet her secret poet by several minutes,Azelma read it again:

_"Yours is the ethereal beauty that I seek_

_I see you now; in temper bleak_

_A hint of rose does tint your cheek_

_And sorrows innumerable leave you meek_

_Meek like I, your gentle knight_

_Who shall not hesitate, for you, to fight_

_Although I'm faceless, to you, just might_

_You meet me just this once; tonight?_

I lie in places shrouded in shadow, beyond the fierce spitting hellfire. Won't you come to me?

Your Knight

Azelma's was the beauty that someone sought? It seemed, to her, impossible, and she felt the tears stinging her eyes again.

She was not beautiful. She was not anything but meek and stupid; she hadn't even the level of intelligence necessary to read all the words in the poem!

All she knew was to head to the back room, which was beyond the kitchen; she had figured that out simply because the few patrons who dared enter at all referred to the kitchen as "Satan's fire."

Beyond the kitchen, she knew, was only the back door and a room that was always locked.

He must be in that room.

Azelma screwed her eyes shut and sighed. It would be "right horrid" of her to leave such a burning, passionate gentlemen waiting. Azelma swept away.

Our dear sweet little mouse; she always did what she was told.


	15. Of Orphans

_The usual: You are all glorious and wonderful, especially as I update this sporadically . The plot has become much more complex than I expected, and it takes a while to write each chapter, as I need to strike a balance between the Thenardier part, the Jehan part, the Ma'am Hucheloup part and the Oliver part._

_Forgive me if this seems rushed- I'm in a hurry to update before these "drastic changes" to take place, just in case I find myself bewildered and unable to upload. I was quite suspicious when they told long-time members such as me to have an open mind._

A frog was waiting in the main room when Azelma descended the stairs. It was appropriately dripping a little; no doubt it had been out all day in the rain. The wetness did not help its smell.

Azelma had no time for wet swamp-beings. She had a knight for the first time ever; she had a knight and not a barbarian!

The frog croaked loudly from its corner as she passed. Azelma glanced towards it, nearly haughtily, and continued on her way.

And then, suddenly, her face contorted its formerly serene features into an expression capturing deepest, darkest fear.

"Eponine…"Azelma mumbled softly, turning around. "Eponine…it's…so nice to see you."

"What's this, then?" came the Frog's grating croak. "Zelly's too good for me now? She got her foot caught in a tree, did she?"

Azelma looked at the floor, the familiar floor, and sighed a little. Eponine scared her when she spoke nonsense.

"Eponine…you're saying crazy things again." Azelma muttered, stepping back a little. There was nobody around to help her if her sister got angry. Nobody! Oh, where was her knight when she really needed him?

"I think it's you what's crazy," the Frog rasped, as she picked something out of her matted mane. "My brat sister, _the whore_, too high and mighty to talk to the likes of me!"

"No, 'Ponine, no, that's not true." Azelma was nearly yelling now, and tears of dread slithered down her cheeks. "I'm nothing, 'Ponine, I'm nothing at all!"

The frogjust sneered.

Our mouse,perhaps to quell her sister's growing flames, slipped back into their native tongue- the language of the street. "I learned me fancy speech from the same man whose whore I am! I ain't nothing!"

For our little mouse, soft and mild, these few sentences were like a speech. Those few sentences, so few and anguish-wrought, were the pinnacle of years and years of sharpest and most painful fear. Seeing Eponine here, in what Azelma thought was her long-deserved save haven, was too much altogether.

She sobbed.

"You come here, Zellette," the Frog whispered, almost kindly. "You come here to your old 'Ponine."

Azelma's instincts said no, Eponine wasn't in her right mind, but she shuffled over to her sister anyway. How Azelma feared people's anger!

"That's right, Zelly, right here." Eponine was breathing her rotten frog-breath onto Azelma's face now.

And suddenly Azelma's face stung, and she was crying all the more. Eponine had slapped her.

"That's who you are, and don't you forget it." Eponine said, and left it at that.

"Eponine…"

"Now, you, don't start in on your sobbin', you got what you needed, and besides, I'm here for a reason."

Azelma blinked and took to tracing a circle on the floor with her foot.

"Fine, I don't want to hear yer voice anyhow," The Frog said annoyed, "All I gots to say is that Papa and me sold you off to that man."

Azelma's heart stopped. "Which man?" She whispered faintly.

"The one what's got nice togs and who's been lyin' with you, you stupid thing!"

Azelma merely blinked. She could not cry. Her family – _her family!_ – was the cause of all her suffering! It was they who joined her with him, they who sold away her every waking minute to a vile speck of a man!

"We sold you off to him and now you gots to try and get information out of him, like, for Papa's new scam!"

Azelma stared at Eponine for a minute, and finally said, meekly and softly, "What Papa?"

Azelma glided away, still heading towards the backroom, to her knight.

Perhaps he could save her from this queer and depraved web woven all about her!

It was not like she had anyone else in the world. Azelma was a newly christened orphan.


End file.
